There lives a cricket in my kitchen.
He sings his tireless serenade from somewhere above the refrigerator, where no one goes.
I cannot see him.
I cannot find him.
He lives there though.
Of this, I am sure.
His song wrings an anthem of our miraculous and incidental reality.
We are both born of the same stardust and he knows this.
His tune to propagate goes unanswered, as far as I know.
His call to the universe is merely met by my slight annoyance when I return home every night.
My annoyance with him is not equal to the aggravation I have for the crow who owns the treetop in my yard.
The cricket sings his sweet song in an effort to get laid whereas the crow stays busy loudly bossing everyone around in the neighborhood and occasionally crapping on my car.
I secretly look forward to my late night return home and the song my kitchen mate brings.
I have become akin to my unseen friend, his melodies to our world, his need for another.
I imagine his songs are my songs, songs of our ancestors, songs of our deepest loves and longest days, songs of what happens to us after we die.
Relentless songs!
His courage and insight are unbridled in his telling.
He becomes silent as I near.
I turn out the light to signal my approval but he waits until I am safely away.
He has a story to tell.
I sit in the dark.
And listen.